My Beloved

by Karen Ranney

  “We will take the Grail to Cyprus, Gregory. To the Master of the Order.”

  D’Aubry smiled and clasped his hand upon Gregory’s back. A sure and certain sign of praise. Gregory could not help but wonder why it irritated him. Perhaps because he knew that he was the one who had procured the Grail, and yet praise for such deeds would be shared with the Marshal. D’Aubry had sponsored such actions as he’d undertaken but had remained in the shadows, ready to disavow any knowledge of Gregory’s activities should something go wrong.

  A matter of timing, that was all. He would ensure that those in power would come to realize who had actually obtained the Grail.

  “I will prepare for the journey,” he said, and bowed his head.

  Juliana sat cradled against him on Faeren. His saddle with its raised pommel and cantle had been traded for Jerard’s. He would much rather surrender the protection against being unhorsed for that of being able to hold Juliana next to him. Faeren’s reins were looped in his right hand, while his left arm circled her waist.

  He had wanted her forever, it seemed. Now, he only felt a need so great that he measured the miles to Langlinais in individual breaths.

  He had resented Jerard’s effortless ability to touch her during the journey to Montvichet, because he knew that he, himself, would never be able to do so. The moment he’d looked at his skin and realized that he had been cured had not been one solely of prayer. It had also been comprised of exaltation, of the knowledge that he could be a man again.

  But it had not seemed right to be spared in one moment and become a rutting boar the next. The haunted fortress had not been the place to make her his wife in truth. Nor was their journey, alone and unguarded. He did not wish a furtive coupling with Jerard standing watch.

  It was enough, but only barely, to lie beside her at night. Sometimes he watched her as she slept. Once, he’d bent over her, his mouth only a breath from hers. The lure of her had been enough to keep him awake most of the night.

  In the morning, he sometimes woke to find her in his arms, as if they had come together in their sleep, each seeking the other. In the dawn light he removed his clothing for his body to be inspected, watching her reaction from the corner of his eye. At first she would barely look at him. Now, she seemed to devour him with her eyes. She never knew that his own breath grew tight as her flush deepened. He always turned away, though, before she could see how her looks affected him.

  She leaned against him now, and his head dipped, brushed a kiss against her temple. Her breath hitched. So, too, the beat of his heart. Juliana. A breath of a thought, an echo of his need.

  She patted him, a gesture she’d begun in the last few days, a small soft pat on arm or knee as if to reassure herself that it was permissible to do so.

  He concentrated on the distance to travel, instead of Juliana’s soft curves resting against him. That way promised only a journey of acute discomfort.

  Jerard called out, pointing ahead to a wooded valley. A stream curved among softly rolling hills, hid beneath a copse of trees. He raised his hand in acknowledgment. They would rest there for their noon meal.

  Each morning and each evening Sebastian stripped himself of his tunic and armor and asked that Jerard inspect him for evidence of disease. Once, Juliana had come upon them unawares, and although she’d turned and walked quickly away, she’d retained the shape of his body in her mind. That picture was added to the scene in Montvichet, when he’d stood naked in the sun.

  When she allowed her thoughts to dwell on him, she remembered his strong thighs and chest and arms, all the other areas that fascinated her. She wanted to put her hands on him, to stroke his chest and thigh and that place that taunted her ignorance.

  She wanted to kiss his skin.

  Her breath came tight in her chest even as her heart seemed to slow and her blood to pound.

  The man who’d once feared contaminating her now branded her with another disease. One of thoughts and wants and warmth that almost made her wish he would not touch her again. A palm upon her shoulder made her want to curve her face to him. A handclasp urged her to kiss his fingers. A finger trailing along the back of her neck created shivers throughout her body.

  She would catch him watching her sometimes, the look in his eyes both fierce and warmly tender. But he never kissed her, and his gentle touches were no more intrusive than a breath of breeze. They enticed; they did not frighten.

  There were few moments in which she was free of thoughts of him. In her sleep, she stood on her tiptoes and pulled his head down for a kiss, feeling the warmth of his lips, remembering the taste of their one kiss. Somehow, in this dream state, she had been not untried and ignorant, but sated and sure, a woman, a wanton. Not a girl. She had placed his large hands upon her breasts, and sighed at the feeling of it, turned into his embrace when he’d traced the contours of her hips and belly. She’d been swept away by the thought of exposing her body to his touch, and recalled, too often, the night when she’d sat naked in front of him.

  In the morning, she would awaken to find herself within his arms. A smile would brush his lips, and he would look into her eyes as if to see her soul. He was so tender of her that she wished sometimes that she could tell him she did not require such care. But if she would have found the courage to say those words, she might also have told him that she was tired of being a maiden. She wished to be a wife.

  She knew the man who dwelled in shadows, who’d whispered despairing words in prayer. She’d understood the lord who had been adjudicator and overseer of his demesne, the student, the man possessed of subtle charm and wit. She respected the man of power, had been the recipient of his will. She’d felt pity and compassion and fear and love for the being clad in monk’s black, awe and respect for the warrior.

  But this man enticed and beckoned and tantalized.

  He dismounted first, held out his arms for her. Without hesitation, she slipped into his embrace.

  As she stood in front of him, her hand reached out of its own volition and touched his chest. She had not worn her bandages since Montvichet, and her fingers, ten separate places that measured sensation, trailed up from the center of his tunic to his shoulders.

  It would take both of her hands to measure the breadth of his arm. His chain mail felt hot against her fingers. She wished she might again place her palm upon the mat of curly hair on his chest.

  Instead, Sebastian stepped back, his breathing just as rapid as hers.

  Before she could question him, he was gone, striding to where Jerard was laying out their meal.

  Chapter 38

  Juliana followed the stream until it curved beneath some large boulders and disappeared. She lifted her skirts, crossed the mossy stones carefully. There she sat and waited.

  She inspected her hands in the sunlight. She would always have scars, but she’d been able to regain some use of her right hand. One day, perhaps soon, she would take up a quill again.

  “It is not wise to simply walk away like that, Juliana,” Sebastian said, his frown forbidding.

  She looked up, unconcerned. “I knew you would find me.”

  “You might have been set upon.”

  “By rabbits and squirrels?” She smiled at him, but his own smile was not coaxed free. Instead, he stood silent on the other side of the stream. A powerful knight with a face like stone.

  Now was the time to fear him.

  She could not summon such an emotion, not when she was surfeit with another more powerful feeling. Love. It seemed to surge through her at the sight of him.

  She stood, bent down and grabbed the hem of her surcoat, pulled it over her head.

  Still, he did not move. Please, Sebastian, do not rebuff me. It had taken all of her courage to lure him to her this way, and even more to do what she planned next.

  Not a cloud marked the pristine purity of the blue sky. Nothing moved upon the landscape but the gentle sway of leaves in the trees, the stream that flowed at their feet. They each remained silent, Adam gar
bed in armor and Eve stripping herself bare.

  She bent and removed her shoes, stood before him as she never had before, clad in nothing more substantial than her thin cotte. No, once before she’d sat naked while he’d watched. Once before she had trembled beneath his gaze.

  “What do you do, Juliana?” The passion of his look was matched by the tenderness in his voice.

  “This moment has been long in coming, Sebastian.”

  “Has it?” He did not move toward her.

  She removed her cotte with a swift movement as if daring herself. A moment more and she stood naked before him.

  “Juliana,” he began, his frown deepening.

  “No,” she interrupted him. Her hand came up as if to physically stave off his words. “Do not chastise me, Sebastian. Do not tell me that I do not know how I feel, or that I have no choice. It is you who are without choice in this matter.”

  He stood and stared at her, studying her in the sunlight that streamed over her. Suddenly he was jumping over the mossy stepping-stones, following her path over the stream. His hands were on her waist and she was suspended above him, his laughter echoing throughout this enchanted glade. She braced her hands on his shoulders, looked down at his beloved face.

  “Where has my timid Juliana gone?” he asked, his lips curved in a smile, the blaze of his eyes hinting at emotions other than humor.

  “She has left forever,” she confessed, matching his smile with one of her own. “Will you miss her?”

  “In truth I never saw her. Only heard of her existence from you. The woman I know asks if I am Death and tells the world she is a leper in order to remain with me. And now bares herself and tells me I am lax in my duty as husband.”

  “Oh, Sebastian,” she said tenderly, her heart overflowing, “don’t you know it is you who have made me brave?”

  He stared up at her, the fierceness on his face that of a warrior. The tenderness she felt abruptly tumbled into something else. This emotion was not soft or gentle—it was fueled by a heat that raced through her and scorched where it touched.

  He laid his forehead between her breasts. She could feel the warmth of his breath on her skin, the abrasion of his whiskered cheeks. A soft kiss upon the slope of her breast summoned a moan from between her lips. He still held her suspended. Helpless and powerless was not what she wanted to be.

  His lips teased a taut nipple just before he mouthed it, then sucked on it strongly. Her breast prickled with a sensation that ran like a fiery cord through her body. Her palms bracketed his head; her soft gasp was both awareness and encouragement.

  He lowered her slowly, her naked breasts brushing against his face, then his chest, the chain mail gently abrading. He was armored and she nude. The contrast was startling.

  She felt a surge of heat so pure that it rivaled fire.

  Her fingers fumbled over his tunic, skidded over the finely crafted links of his chain mail. She wanted to feel him, touch his skin. Thwarted, she slapped her hands against his chest. His smile erupted into a chuckle.

  He speared his fingers into her hair, his large, broad hands holding her head steady. His kiss was all the things he’d promised and more, talented and luring and intrusive. His tongue thrust into her mouth, enticing and forbidden. He trained her to welcome him, deepened the kiss until she saw stars behind her lids. She thought she whimpered, but that, too, might have been only another sensation in the maelstrom of the moment.

  He pulled away, long enough to pull the tunic over his head. She rained kisses over his mailed chest, stood on tiptoe to kiss his neck, reached up and pulled his head down fiercely when he delayed too long.

  She swallowed his smile, changed it into a guttural moan. She bit at his lips, entwined her tongue with his, inhaled the air he exhaled.

  He removed the shirt of his chain mail, then the leggings, threw the heavy garments to the other side of the stream. The rest of his clothing was removed as quickly, and he stood before her, naked.

  His body was taut with muscle, his skin sleek. A man in his prime. In his arms were ropes of muscles developed to wield a sword, his thighs as powerful from hours of riding. His body had been honed as a battle weapon, his scars attesting to the skill of his opponents. A thin mark ran from his back to trail upward and end beneath his arm. Another sliced from knee to upper thigh.

  She had been wrong; he wasn’t like the statue the villagers had found at all. There was a part of him that was much, much larger. A breath escaped her, a soft exhalation of wonder. Her hand reached out and touched him. She jerked her hand back at his soft moan. His fingers curled around her hand, placed it back on his flesh again. Color marked his high cheekbones, and his breathing was almost as rapid as hers. She watched his face as her hand slid over him, their gazes locked and fused by fire.

  And were I you, our blood would beat the same, our breaths in tune, our passions high, our love shared in mind and flesh. Who had said that? Or was it a thought formed in that moment? She couldn’t remember, didn’t know.

  He pulled her against the full length of his body. Her nipples brushed against his furred chest, the sensation so sharp it was almost painful. Her breasts seemed to swell, ached to be touched. She pulled his head down, guided his lips to her nipple.

  He obliged at once, suckling her, his cheeks hollowing. She threw her head back, her breaths coming in hard panting gusts. Her fingers gripped his hair, kept him in place.

  His hands reached around and pulled her even closer. More. She wanted more. As if he’d heard her, he cupped her bottom and lifted her to him, his mouth still locked on her breast.

  His skin was hot, every part of him so heated that she thought she might be burned by touching him. But she was mindless, uncaring. She held on to his shoulders with nails grown sharp with need. She stood on her tiptoes, pushed closer to him, his manhood grinding into the notch of her thighs.

  She could not breathe, was encapsulated in a fog of passion, stronger than anything she’d ever read or dreamed could exist. She would die of this, she knew it, just as she was aware that her breath was painfully fast, her blood as quick.

  He picked her up and carried her to where the moss was thickest, laid her down on the sunwarmed ground. Her gaze never left him. Her warrior. He was limned by the sun, seemed to eclipse it. She reached out to pull him down to her with greedy hands.

  He’d readied her for his touch weeks ago, speaking words that had made her blood race. He’d invaded her mind with desire, preparing her for this moment. But nothing, not words, not actions, could have warned her of this, this ravenous desperation that became everything she was and all that she would be.

  Her nails scraped his skin. She wanted to absorb him, gather him under her nails, inhale his breath. Become him, if necessary. She was frenzied by this feeling, adrift in it. The bulb of his shoulders, the angle of elbow, his thick wrists and powerful hands, his wide chest, they were all targets for her touch. She rained kisses over him, nipping at his strong neck, his shoulder.

  Sebastian seemed as fevered. He grazed his teeth along the underside of her breasts, stroked his hands from her wrist to shoulder, from ankle to hip. His kisses were wild things that tasted of heat.

  He widened her legs and knelt between them. She glanced up to meet his gaze. His look was sharp, the blue of his eyes burning like a flame’s core.

  Then she was being invaded by him, stretched just as he’d once warned her. Molded to become familiar with him. She wanted to scream. It was not enough. The broad head of his phallus was just inside her, but not deeply enough. More.

  He kissed her, a sweeping kiss that inflamed her further. She was on fire, and he was being too careful.

  She arched upward, suddenly impaling herself on him. She moaned with the feeling of it, painful pressure and more. It only intensified the ache she felt, did nothing to ease it.

  Then he surged fully into her, and she screamed. Just for a moment, the pain was more than she could bear. He murmured to her, words that were meant to comfort, b
ut it was not soothing she wanted. Only something that remained barely hidden. Something close and almost achieved.

  He reached down and pulled her legs wider, sank into her still further. She clamped her lips down on the moan she would have made. He parted her still further, reached to brush his fingers over the juncture of her thighs, until he touched a place so sensitive and swollen that she almost screamed again. Not with pain, but with demand. End this. It was both entreaty and necessity. She could not live without it and she did not know how much more she could bear. He used his fingers to push aside the folds of her flesh, expose that spot to his strokes. This time when he surged inside her, she felt him there, too, each caress forcing her onward to madness.

  Helpless need shook her. Her senses could only measure the pounding of her heart and his body pummeling hers. He invaded and demanded, stretching her, widening her for his use. It was an act of possession, male and hungry and alive.

  She hurt with it. Ached with pain and desire. She was weeping, and her nails were tearing at him. Her breath came in surging pants, but the torment went on and on, the pain buried in the core of her body. She felt as if she were being plundered. Besieged.

  Her hands gripped Sebastian’s arms. His skin was slick with sweat.

  “Juliana.” Her name was repeated over and over; it became a cadence that measured the pumping of his hips.

  She felt herself being ripped apart. Pain ached and burned in the core of her. But there was another sensation, too. It began between her thighs, where Sebastian’s strokes pounded ruthlessly against her flesh, radiated outward to hips and belly and knees. Widened still further to encompass her shoulders, her feet, the palms of her hands. It was a giant blazing star colored red and glowing, into which she had no choice but to collapse. It was part of her, or she was part of it, and the only thing anchoring her to the earth was Sebastian.

  His voice was harsh, his words too difficult to understand. Her hands fluttered at his shoulders, there was a sound like a gasp or a moan that came from her lips. Another cry, demand this time.